


Come Back and Look For Me (Look For Me When I am Lost)

by Anonymous



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Hoo Boy Age Difference, M/M, Not Quite As Unhealthy As The Last One Though, Teen Peter, Underage - Freeform, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:49:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9542402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tony's been called a lot of things in his life.'Daddy' is not one of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well hey there! it's sequel time!  
> a few notes before we begin:  
> \- like the previous fic, this one doesn't totally line up to the MCU's run. there are a few details about Civil War, so that storyline happened, but it doesn't affect the characters here, and also Peter wasn't in whatever version of Civil War happened in this fic verse- just dont worry about it  
> -again, peter here is not based off of any existing peter from movies/comics/shows, he is up to interpretation  
> -the tony here is a little more based of the movie canon, but he might deviate a little later on (lmao Might)
> 
> -note for new readers: this fic is a direct sequel to [You Put Me on a Shelf (and Kept Me For Yourself)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7851127/chapters/17926423) and it won't make much sense unless you've read that one first. 
> 
> I think that's all the housekeeping- enjoy!

Tony Stark watches through the window as Barnes and Rogers ship out, Peter tucked in their arms. He can just see the kid’s feet swinging helplessly as they walk, bobbing up and down with every step Barnes takes. On the street, a helpful car pulls up- FRIDAY’s doing, of course. He can hear them both cooing nervously over Peter for a few moments before the door clamps shut and the car pulls away, and then-

And then nothing.

He lets go, and Wilson slumps to the ground.

“Fuck,” Wilson groans, rubbing his face. It’s black, flaking off in pieces where Tony’s repulsor blast had grazed it. Behind him, the wall bears a small crater, dust trickling out from the corners of every crack. A very, very small part of Tony had been merciful, even though he knows that Wilson can’t die and that he’s probably had much worse than a repulsor blast to the face.

Everyone always forgets that there’s a ‘genius’ part in his whole ‘genius billionaire playboy philanthropist’ label. They tend to stick to the middle two. After all, a billionaire playboy is much more sellable than a genius philanthropist.

But, yes. Tony is, in both his words and in others’, a genius. And as such, Tony notices things.

He’s not a genius enough to know what he notices, exactly, but he knows that he notices something. He tucks it into a pocket of his mind.

“So,” he says.

Wilson says nothing. He rubs his face experimentally, as if he isn’t quite used to it being exposed to the air. Tony thumbs the mask between his fingers, looking at it. Wilson gives a low sigh, looking straight at the ground.

“I’m assuming you have a place in mind for me,” he says.

“Eh.” Tony shrugs. “There are a few.”

Tony doesn’t want to put Wilson away. Tony doesn’t want Wilson to leave this room. The vast, vast majority of Tony wants to aim at Wilson and close his eyes and open them to see a mural of gore over the walls, wants to make Wilson pay dearly for this. And the moment the thought crosses his mind, he shuts it down. He is not a violent person, he can _choose_ not to be a violent person. He’s going to take Wilson away, as he and Barnes and Rogers had decided together.

“Is that code for some secret government experiment lab thing?” Wilson asks. “Because I’ve had about enough of that for a lifetime. Several lifetimes, actually.”

“No,” Tony says stiffly, still looking at the mask. Wilson can’t run. He’s naked, charred, and slumped in the wreckage of his own house- and Tony is fully armored and ready to fight. “You’ll just be held.”

“Right,” Wilson says, and lapses into silence. Tony rubs the mask between his thumb and his finger and feels it rip under the pressure of the metal plates. He drops it to the floor.

“Up,” he says.

“Am I at least allowed to take my unicorn?” Wilson asks, twisting over his shoulder to look up at Tony. He gives Tony a look that sends a shot of hatred straight into Tony’s gut. It’s a hopeful look, almost like there’s a punchline waiting to hit. Wilson doesn’t care- not about Peter, not about himself, not about anything.

Tony doesn’t smile. Wilson’s hope evaporates and he sinks another inch down the wall. And Tony.

Tony-

“We’ll see,” Tony says.

* * *

 Peter stays confined to the Tower.

He spends a day in medical, where two SHIELD grunts look him over and check their boxes. Tony had suggested that Bruce might take a look, but Barnes and Rogers had flatly refused. Which was a shame, honestly, because it would have been an excuse to call up Bruce, and he hasn’t talked to Bruce in _ages,_ and calling him up just to hang out would be a little awkward at this point.

But Peter gets through medical just fine. There’s no major damage, and the most they can tell him is to keep an eye on the bruises over his neck. They’re extensive- Tony had tried not to look, but even peering through the window over in medical, he could see the swelling purple things all over the kid’s skin.

They bar him from going outside for a week, and then for two weeks, and then it’s an unspoken rule.

Peter stays in the tower. June sighs into July, which stretches and pulls into August. Peter turns seventeen on the fifth of the month, and the day is a bright point after nearly two months of wading through the fog. Peter brightens up when they throw a little party for him.

More than a few people show up. Tony can count the list of people that know about what happened to Peter on his right hand. Rogers, Barnes, himself, the two SHIELD grunts from medical, and the driver from that very day. The last three had all signed confidentiality waivers, and Tony hasn’t heard a peep from them since.

So no one else at Peter’s birthday party knows a thing about what happened. None of them even know he’d gone missing at all. It’s a small blessing, but they all take the day to pretend that everything’s normal again.

Peter smiles for the first time in two months when he unwraps his presents, when the group of superheroes picks up an off-beat, off-key rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, when he drops his cake straight onto his chest and smears frosting everywhere, when they can forget things for a moment and just _be._

But after that, they go back.

Steve and Bucky seem too distracted with relief to notice how much the poor kid just wants out. Tony spots him looking at the streets below them every chance he gets, watches him check the news time and time again. He barely spends time on his computer anymore, barely shuts himself in his room at all.

Which strikes a chord in Tony.

He knows that feeling. Because he’d been a shut-in kid himself, oh way back when. He, too, had dedicated himself to machines and objects rather than people, and he knows what it means to break that dedication.

He’s not surprised the kid’s trying to stay away from his parents for a while.

For one thing, he can’t imagine how embarrassing it must be to look them in the eyes, after having been exposed like that. (And Tony has a bit of personal experience in _that_ regard, too.) But for another, he knows that the kid must be suffocating.

Bucky and Steve’s brand of parenting wouldn’t have been on the same shelf as Howard and Maria’s. Hell, it wouldn’t have even been in the same store. Or the same _state._ Where Howard had been distant and negligent, Steve is over-supportive and hovering. Where Maria had been quiet and solemn, Bucky is loud and blunt. They’re not bad parents by any means, Tony thinks. He’d gladly have swapped his own parents for them if he’d had the choice.

But he does pity the kid, a bit.

Peter can’t go anywhere without his parents knowing, thanks to Steve’s insistence that FRIDAY monitor him now at all times.

It had seemed like a welcome idea at the start, when Peter had been too young to make rational decisions, and they’d been legitimately worried that he might run across something dangerous- because hello, Avengers Tower is practically a synonym for “danger magnet”. But they’d never bothered to break the habit.

And so even now, when Steve asks the air nonchalantly where his son is, FRIDAY pipes up her answer, crisp and clear. It doesn’t seem to bother Steve, nor Bucky. But every time FRIDAY begins a sentence with _“Peter Benjamin Parker Rogers-Barnes is located”,_ a little shiver of worry creeps its way down Tony’s spine.

So no. He’s not surprised when the kid stays as far away from them as he can, in the few weeks after they bring him home.

He _is_ surprised when Peter still does it, two months later.

* * *

It’s remarkable how quickly he gets used to having the kid in his lab.

After three weeks of having had a shadow at his heels, Tony finally barks at the kid to give him a hand or get out, and Peter complies without a second of doubt, handing Tony the spanner that had been lying on the ground some three feet away, mere seconds ago.

“Why are you giving me this,” Tony says, looking from the work table to the spanner to Peter’s face. Peter takes it back, curling in on himself a little.

“I thought you might need-” he stutters, and Tony rolls his eyes.

“I’m an actual engineer, not a pin-up calendar,” he snarks. “I don’t use a spanner for _everything.”_ To prove his point, he flicks the edge of his newest development- temperature regulating armor- and it gives a nice responsive _whirr._ “I said give me a hand.”

“Oh,” Peter says, looking at the contraption. “No, I was just going to say-” And then he looks Tony straight in the eyes and says, “the table keeps wobbling when you put too much weight on the left side.”

And he holds out the spanner.

* * *

It only takes another few months for Peter to revert back to normal- or close to normal. He starts humming to himself again, starts tinkering on his old projects. He moves them all down to Tony’s lab, designating the messiest corner to himself. After a couple weeks, Tony makes it officially _his_ corner by clearing the table and setting up a desk lamp. Peter celebrates by bringing in three new super-suit designs and asking Tony for advice.

Tony catches him sneaking out at night twice, suit on, and says nothing.

Peter’s got nothing to fear, after all. Wilson’s locked away, far away. They have regular updates. He’s secure.

Wilson hadn’t even fought. And Wilson still hasn’t fought. He stays in his cell, perfectly content. Tony knows this, because Tony checks the feed every day, desperate for some clue. He doesn’t know what clue he’s looking for, but he’s pretty sure it’ll fit into that same little pocket, in the corner of his mind.

He stares at the feed for another few seconds before telling himself there’s no point. He flicks it off, shutting the monitor down, and the room falls into darkness. There’s no point, he tells himself, there’s no point. He’s not getting anything out of this.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to sleep, head swimming.

* * *

But it doesn’t make _sense._ None of this makes sense. What’s wrong with Wilson? He hasn’t even tried to escape the Raft.

“The Raft? Seriously? The _Raft?”_

It’s cold here, just like Tony remembers it. The cells are just as blank and white and dead, the floor is just as hard, the air is just as cool. It’s not a good place, the Raft. It feels like a bad omen, coming here. Things hadn’t gone right, last time he’d been here, and they’re not going right, now.

“You couldn’t have bothered to just look up a list of penitentiaries in New York? No, you had to go with the Raft.”

Tony doesn’t smile.

“The Raft is the only place we knew could hold you.”

“No, the Raft is the only prison around here you’ve ever heard of.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What do you want, Stark?”

Wilson’s voice is weary, exhausted. Tony doesn’t blame him. The man’s been stuck in a lifeless prison, away from air, away from sunlight, away from people. They don’t give him books or movies or knitting needles. They don’t give him a window to the outside world. They don’t give him anything but food and water and contempt.

It’s what he deserves, Tony reminds himself. He has no reason to feel bad for this man.

“What do I want?” Tony sighs. “The truth.”

Wilson looks at him. “I’m sure Petey Pie will be more than willing to give you that.”

“Don’t call him that,” Tony snaps.

“Why not?” Wilson grins now, lips stretched obscenely, teeth clenched together. It’s a horrifying grin, and it’s meant to be. Tony doesn’t cave.

“Tell me the truth,” he says again, stepping closer to the glass. Wilson gives him a look. Tony doesn’t make a particularly intimidating figure; he’s short and well-kempt and the most he can do is cross his arms and glare. And it doesn’t help that there’s a thick glass wall between them.

“I think you already have the story,” Wilson says, shrugging. He heaves a little sigh, leaning back against the wall and crossing his legs, kicking at the floor. “I saw dear little Petey Pie swinging around the streets and he just looked _so_ delicious, I just had to have him.”

“He said you took him,” Tony says.

“That I did.” Wilson gives that smile again, that horrible smile. “Took him, all for myself. Kept him in my basement, all locked up. Just for me.”

“You don’t have a basement.”

“Eh, it’s close enough.” Wilson rolls his eyes. “Point is, you know what happened. Petey can tell you everything.” He sighs dreamily, and then adopts a sing-song tone. _“And the bad man went to jail…”_

“You don’t seem all that choked up about this,” Tony points out.

Wilson’s eyes narrow. “I think we can call this remorse, right? This, right here?” He gestures down at himself, at his little blue jumpsuit, at the little cot that looks like it can barely hold him up, at the white walls with flat screwheads.

“Remorse,” Tony echoes. “Do you even know what that is?”

“Who knows.” Wilson shrugs. “But hey, maybe it’s just retribution.” He looks at the ceiling, as if expecting to see someone watching him. “Divine retribution.”

“Nothing you say makes sense,” Tony says. “Tell me the truth. What happened?”

“I took him,” Wilson says flatly. “I used him. He escaped. That’s the end of it.” He looks up at Tony again, stretching another smile onto his face. "Why are you so curious? Jealous?"

The last word sears into Tony's chest, but he closes his eyes and yanks it out and shoves it back in that pocket of things not to think about. 

"He didn’t escape," he says, forcing his eyes open and staring hard at Wilson.

Wilson flops onto his bed. “Course he did. He’s with you now, isn’t he? Safe at home with Mummy and Daddy and Uncle Stark.”

Tony wants to spit on him.

“You let him go,” he says instead. “You let him go, didn’t you.” It’s not a question. It’s quiet and low and as he realizes it, the thought leaves his lips.

“It was three on one.” Wilson shrugs. “There was hardly any _letting_ on my part.”

“You brought us to him,” Tony adds, voice getting louder. “You told us where you were, you told us you had him. And then you let him go.”

Wilson closes his eyes. “I took him,” he repeats. “I used him. He escaped.”

Tony stamps his foot on the floor. The sound echoes around the prison, but Wilson doesn’t even flinch.

“It doesn’t make _sense,”_ Tony growls. Wilson tips his head back onto the cot, smiling again. It’s a real smile this time- not that obscene thing.

“Well, I’m sure I can’t help you.” Wilson beams to himself, practically lighting up the whole cot. What the hell is he thinking about, to make him smile in a place like this? “It’s not my story to tell. Whatever Peter told you, that’s what happened.” He draws in a breath and sings again, barely hitting any discernable notes. _“And the bad man, the sad man, the bad man went to jail…”_

“It should have been a trap,” Tony mutters. “It should have been a trap- you lure us in, and then.” He smacks his hands together. “But nothing. You just let him go, you didn’t even fight.”

“Seems about right,” Wilson says to the ceiling.

“You must have done something to them,” Tony says. “That’s it, that’s all I can think of. What did you do to them?” He bangs a hand against the glass, but it barely resonates, the wall is so thick.

“S’ not the only thing,” Wilson mutters. “Sorry, what? Question?”

“What did you do to them?” Tony growls, ignoring Wilson’s insanity. “You did something, I know you did. You wouldn’t have let them go otherwise- you look like you’re happy to be here. This was all a plan, so _what did you do to them?”_

“Hey, hey.” Wilson sits up, frowning a little. “I didn’t do anything to anyone. Well- okay, sure, I did a few things to Peter, but that’s not the point.”

“Wilson.”

“I mean it!” Wilson puts a hand over his heart. “Cross my heart, hope to die- ooh, but actually, though.”

_“Wilson.”_

“Wow.” Wilson lies back down on the bed, still looking up at Tony over his chest. “You sound like you’re havin’ a pretty bad time, Stark.”

The Raft is silent. The walls are so thick that the roar of the ocean doesn’t even sound, the scraping of the wind against the sides of the building, the shriek of the moonlight on the metal. It’s utterly isolated, insulated. The only sounds here are of Tony’s feet rocking on the floor, of Wilson sighing to himself, of the pitter-patter of feet sounding far, far away.

Tony sighs and pulls out his phone. He taps the right corner, swipes. Taps again. And once more.

The lights fall.

Wilson opens his eyes.

Tony presses his thumb to his wrist and the iron armor folds over his palm. Aiming it at the door, he closes his eyes and blasts.

The door swings open.

Wilson rolls out of his bed, alert at last. Tony doesn’t meet his wide-eyed gaze, but answers the question before it can escape his lips.

“I made you a deal,” he says flatly. “I told you to give us Peter, and I’d keep SHIELD off your ass.” He folds his arms. “And you gave us Peter.”

“You’re breaking me out?” Wade blinks. “So that’s three down, one to go.”

“What?” Tony frowns.

“Well, we already had ‘genius’ and ‘billionaire’,” Wade says, as though it’s obvious. “And now look. You’re a philanthropist after all.”

“Three minutes,” Tony says, checking his phone. “You find your own way home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wade i dont think you know what that word means- good try tho
> 
> porn 2 come s00n  
> i pinky promise


	2. Chapter 2

Tony doesn’t sleep for two days straight after letting Wilson go. He knows he can’t, so he doesn’t bother trying.

For one, Wilson is _out there again._ The logical part of Tony’s brain says that that means Peter’s in danger now- but the bit of his brain stuffed into that back pocket holds it back. There’s something there. Wilson hadn’t fought. Wilson _hadn’t fought._

He turns onto his back and stares at his bedroom ceiling.

Wilson hadn’t fought- but no, that wasn’t right. Wilson _had_ fought, but only for a few moments. Wilson had fought, but then Wilson had heard- what had he heard?

“FRIDAY,” Tony says suddenly, lips cracked. He knows it’s not part of FRIDAY’s programming, but his room seems to swell awake as FRIDAY hears him.

 _“Yes, boss?”_ she says.

“I know I told you to delete it,” Tony says, “but do you still have any footage from the Iron Suit? From a few months ago?”

 _“You mean from the rescue?”_ FRIDAY asks _. “Yes, boss.”_

“Play it back,” Tony says. “Just- just the audio. No visual.”

_“Yes, boss.”_

He closes his eyes just in case, and the speakers crackle on the corners of his walls for a moment before he’s back in that apartment, back in his suit. He can almost feel it, feel the sweat in his palms and his heart thundering under the metal plating. He remembers the cold fury- no, that’s not right. He remembers the fury that had pounded red-hot up and down his body, into his arms, his hands, his fingertips.

 _“Get off of him!”_ he hears himself roar, and then the phantom _whirr_ of his palm repulsors, and then Peter screaming, screaming-

 _“Dad?”_ Peter’s voice cries, cracking. _“Dad, help me!”_

 _“Clear!”_ Tony’s voice calls. The _ka-kunk_ of doors being thrown open, the hushed _oh Peter_ and _oh god_ that follow, and then-

 _“Get away from him.”_ It’s Wilson. Tony’s eyes open and he stares at the ceiling, trying to picture Wilson’s face as he says it. He’s angry- truly angry. It’s the kind of _get away from him_ Tony can imagine saying about someone important.

Pepper, perhaps.

He drives that thought out of his mind as Wilson shouts again. _“You can’t take him away- he’s mine now, got it?”_

He’s angry, still, but. He’s worried, too. As if he thinks Barnes or Rogers will somehow bring about harm.

He hears himself blast Wilson again, hears himself relay details to Barnes and Rogers, hears them murmur over their son, hears Peter crying weakly, calling them each, and then-

_“Baby boy, what the hell are you doing?”_

“Stop,” Tony says, and the static cuts off. That right there. _Baby boy, what the hell are you doing?_

_What the hell are you doing?_

Wilson hadn’t _known._

Which meant that Wilson hadn’t sent the message in the first place.

Which meant that _Peter_ had.

But even that doesn’t make sense. Why hadn’t Peter just contacted them directly? If he’d had the means to send a message under Wilson’s name, surely he could have had the means to send them another message from himself. And- and even if he’d been forced to write to them as Wilson, why hasn’t he mentioned it by now? It’s clever, Tony can admit that much. It’s something to brag about, it’s a good story.

So why doesn’t Peter want to tell it?

Everything is just- too much, right now. Everything is confusing and tying together but not matching, and he just wants to know _why._ Maybe a long time ago, Tony Stark could have seen a problem and let it be, but not now. Now, he sees a handful of loose ends and his fingers itch to knot them together. Now, he sees a sign pointing to a back road and his feet skid over the path in haste to take it.

“More,” Tony says. “Keep going.”

 _“Yes, boss,”_ FRIDAY chirps. And-

 _“Get off of him,”_ Wilson’s voice growls, muffled by Tony’s metal-clad arm around his neck _. “He belongs here now- he’s never going back with you. He came here because he was sick of-”_

Wilson’s voice cuts off as something collides with a sickening _crunch._ Barnes’s fist, of course.

 _“I d-didn’t want to,”_ Peter howls. _“He took- took me and kept me-”_

Tony closes his eyes again as Peter babbles nonsense, babbles words that he knows are both true and cannot be true.

 _“You,”_ Wilson’s voice hisses. Tony freezes- he doesn’t remember this part. He doesn’t remember a lot of the rescue, to be honest. The shock of seeing Peter strung up by his ankles, open and begging-

Open and vulnerable and _crying_.

-had knocked out most of the other details. So he doesn’t remember these words, and he doesn’t remember the way Wilson’s voice had dipped here, dipped into a low, different tone. Tony knows this voice, he knows it. But what is it?

_“You little sneak.”_

It’s betrayal.

“Stop.”

The threads twist together into a string, and the string twists into a rope, and the rope ties itself into a knot. And Tony knows.

He sits up. “FRIDAY,” his shaking voice says, and the room beats in answering.

_“Yes, boss.”_

But he doesn’t have a question. He doesn’t have- he can’t _do_ anything. What can he do? Talk to Peter? The kid has trust issues for miles, he doesn’t need to worry about Tony mouthing off to Barnes and Rogers about this. What, should he try to find Wilson? And do what? Ask him about what had happened? Again, and do _what?_ He can’t reunite them. He can’t help Wilson.

But it had been Wilson’s fault, he reminds himself. Everything had been Wilson’s fault, Peter had just been a kid-

Peter’s _still a kid._

-when it had happened, which had made Wilson responsible, but Peter had also been responsible for sending Wilson behind bars. Without telling him.

Smart. The kid is smart.

“FRIDAY,” he says again.

 _“Yes, boss,”_ FRIDAY says, emphasizing the ‘yes’.

“That- all of that. Delete it,” Tony says, rubbing a hand over his face. “If anyone ever asks to see it again- including me- it’s gone.”

_“Yes, boss.”_

“For good this time.”

There’s a small pause. And then.

_“Yes, boss.”_

* * *

“Mister Stark!”

Tony freezes, spanner in hand, bent over his work table.

“Hey, kid,” he says, keeping his eyes trained down on the grease-stained metal clamp lying on its side. He reaches down and fiddles with a bit on the end- where there will be an actual plug someday.

“Do you want a hand?”

Tony takes a breath and turns.

Peter’s standing in the middle of his lab, in his usual lab clothes. Over the months, his jeans had stained from blue to black, and his overshirt had ripped in three different places. It suits him, Tony thinks, the rugged look. He’d do well as a model, maybe as a faux-car-mechanic, bending over the engine of a 1961 Volvo P1800.

Maybe holding a spanner in one hand, maybe with a rag tucked into his jeans, hitched down just enough to get a good look at the waist-

“Mister Stark?”

Tony drops the spanner, and it clatters to the floor. Peter’s eyes widen and he kneels down to snatch it up, then hands it out to Tony with a dopey grin.

“Sorry, guess I shouldn’t bother you when you’re working,” he says, as Tony takes the spanner back slowly.

“No,” Tony says. “No, you’re. Fine.”

Peter’s grin fades and he cocks his head to the side. A lock of near-curls drops between his eyes. “Is something wrong, Mister Stark?”

“No.” Tony shakes his head. “Did you want something?”

“I asked if you wanted a hand,” Peter says again, and Tony remembers.

“Yes!” he says. “Right. I mean- no, I don’t need help. But thank you.”

“Oh, okay.” Peter shrugs. “If you’re sure.”

He turns away, and Tony’s eyes miraculously fall onto his hips, which sway side-to-side as he heads back to his corner and leans over his own work table again, humming softly. Tony looks down at the spanner in his hand.

What the _hell?_

* * *

The rest of the day isn’t much easier.

The kid follows him _everywhere._ Usually he skips out after an hour or two of Lab time in the morning, but not today. No, today he’s glued to Tony’s shadow, hopping after him wherever he goes. He doesn’t seem to notice just how closely he’s tailing Tony, nor how _strange_ he’s acting.

“So,” Peter says, spooning out a few teaspoon of yogurt and kicking his legs under the windowsill. “Whatcha working on?” With his back to the window, his hair glows golden.

“Bionic arms,” Tony says, trying not to look at the kid. He grabs a foil package out of the fridge and opens it, curiously. Day old pizza- Barton must have been here yesterday. If that’s the case, then there’s a good chance it contains dog spit. He closes the foil and tucks it back in the fridge.

“Like Dad’s?” Peter asks, slipping the spoon onto his tongue. He tugs it down, leaving a little trail of pink yogurt behind, and looks down at the spoon, tongue out. After a moment, he curls his tongue back in his mouth and swallows thickly, smiling over at Tony.

“No,” Tony says slowly. “Not. Like that.”

“Oh.” Peter dips his spoon back into the cup of yogurt and gathers up another teaspoon. “Then like what?”

“Like,” Tony says, as Peter brings the spoon to his lips again. The yogurt drips off and trails down his bottom lip, and he lets it drip for a second before flicking his tongue out to catch it. The rest of the yogurt in the spoon drops onto the tip of his tongue, sliding around to catch on the bottom and dribble down from there. A bit catches on his top lip and he licks up to reach it, showing off the cream stuck to the bottom of his tongue.

Peter snaps his lips shut and swallows again, a bit of cream poking out between the sides of his lips.

“Like?” Peter says.

Tony shuts the fridge.

“Like,” he says again. “Like other. Things. For mechanical reasons.”

“Oh, not for medical?” Peter asks, setting the cup of yogurt down. Something tugs in relief in Tony’s chest.

“No. This is more for- places that can’t afford to hire people to do work, so they need. Help.”

“That’s nice.” Peter hitches his legs up onto the windowsill too- the little acrobat- and reaches back for the yogurt.

Tony wants to cry.

 “How about you?” he says, turning back to the fridge and scanning the shelves quickly. “Anything new?”

“Not much,” Peter says, and Tony doesn’t watch him. He ducks behind the fridge door, blocking Peter from view. There’s a carton of milk, a jug of cranberry juice, two cartons of eggs, what looks like a Tupperware container full of old pasta, and some puff pastry. He memorizes the order.

“Slow going, huh,” he says, reaching behind the back to see if there’s anything else.

“I guess,” Peter says. “But I like it when things are slow, yknow?”

Tony doesn’t know, not really. Things usually either Are or Aren’t. And when they Are, he sees them. Tony’s a businessman, yes, but he gets things done- which sets him apart from other people in his field. He’s impatient, yes, but it’s strategy, and it _works._

“Yeah," he says, spotting another Tupperware container with a date scribbled on the top and the words _DO NOT EAT UNDER PAIN OF DEATH_ scrawled underneath. Tony grabs it.

“I just think it’s better,” Peter continues, and Tony hears the scrape of his spoon against the rim of the plastic yogurt cup. “Because then you get to really do everything right.”

Tony doesn’t know what the kid’s talking about, so he focuses on the Tupperware container. It’s dated for yesterday, and the handwriting is barely legible. He tucks his thumb under the lid.

“Especially when you have something really _hard_ to do,” Peter goes on, and Tonys thumb slips off the rim of the tub. He adjusts his grip. “If you go slow, you can do the whole thing, no problem. If you try to take it all at once, then you get into trouble.”

Tony swings the fridge door shut, Tupperware in hand. “Take it?” he repeats, looking over at Peter- who’s sitting cross-legged on the windowsill, thighs spread wide. His jeans, old and faded, have two neat rips on the undersides of his thighs, and Tony can just make out the peachy skin poking out from underneath-

“Do it,” Peter corrects himself, and Tony’s fingers fumble on the side of the Tupperware and it pops open and something orange and chunky splatters out and spills all down his front and-

 _“Fuck,”_ he curses, as the Tupperware drops to the floor, landing in a pile of what Tony sincerely hopes is pasta sauce. It smells like tomatoes, at least. He prays to god that the chunks aren’t meat.

“Mister Stark!”

Peter hops off the windowsill and rushes over, bending down and picking up the Tupperware. “Mister Stark, are you okay?”

“I’m- fine,” Tony bites, watching him. The sauce is cold on his front and he stays stock-still, hands at his sides. Peter picks up the slack and yanks off a paper towel from the rack. “Thanks,” Tony says, reaching for it, but Peter doesn’t listen. Before Tony can say another word, Peter rubs the paper towel over Tony’s front, wiping away sauce.

“I’m sorry I startled you,” he says quietly, looking up at Tony. He’s not short by any means, but he’s still not an adult-

He’s _seventeen._

-and Tony is, which means.

Tony is taller than him. It means Tony is taller than him.

Peter throws away the first paper towel and rips off another one, then sinks down to his knees and starts patting down Tony’s legs. His hand brushes the inside of Tony’s thigh-

Tony steps back and yanks the towel out of Peter’s hand, hand shaking.

“Thanks,” he says. “I. I got it.”

“Are you sure?” Peter asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m sure.” Tony shakes his head to clear it. “Look- kid, I. I’m gonna go change.”

“Okay,” Peter says, nodding. He’s still on his knees, looking up at Tony.

Tony’s feet stay rooted to the spot.

“You sure you don’t want a hand?” Peter asks, honey-sweet.

Tony’s left foot uproots itself and he steps back.

“I’m sure,” he says, and runs for the elevator.

* * *

Tony decides to take a leaf out of Rogers’s book and head for the Stark Tower gym to clear his head. Whatever’s going on, he doesn’t need to be spending so much energy getting angry at himself for not being able to work it out.

He settles for running first, because it’s easy and because he doesn’t want to have to reset the weight machines after Barnes and Rogers had used them. It’s stupid to be jealous or feel inferior, but it’s also inevitable.

“FRIDAY,” he calls, stepping onto the treadmill and thwacking the towel over the arm-hold.

_“Yes, boss?”_

“Play,” Tony says, and tries to fish for good songs. He has a whole list of them somewhere, tucked in a back shelf in his mind. But all his brain can picture right now is glowing hair and a dollop of cream. He sighs. “Something,” he finishes. “Just. Play something.”

 _“Yes, boss,”_ FRIDAY says, and the gym hums to life with the strains of Phil Collins. Tony scrunches his nose up at the sound of it, but it’s mostly for show. There’s a little part of him that likes Phil Collins. Just a bit.

He sets to jogging, closing his eyes and letting his brain sit and chew for a bit, just listening to the music and concentrating on keeping his strides steady. He doesn’t know what playlist FRIDAY’s cooked up, but it does the trick. Three more songs in and he loses track, just running and thinking.

He doesn’t know what to do. Wilson’s back out, but if Tony’s right, he won’t come for Peter. And if Tony’s right, Peter won’t go looking for him. Even if Peter sneaks out for a breath of fresh night air every other weekend, he’ll be safe. And Tony doesn’t have hard evidence to prove it, and the knot of worry in his stomach is tight, but some part of him trusts the gut feeling. Wilson is gone now. Wilson’s not the problem.

So then what’s the problem? Peter?

Well. Yes.

Peter’s lying, Tony knows that much. Even if the rest of his theory isn’t true, he knows Peter’s lying. To his parents and to Tony. And Tony.

Tony-

Wants the truth.

He knows part of it, knows that part of him is right, that his theory is based on _something_ that must be true. But he needs it, like he needs a good drink at the end of a day. He needs to hear the truth, from Peter’s mouth.

Peter’s mouth.

_Pale pink cream, dripping off the top of his lips-_

“Mister Stark!”

Tony hears the warning too late- his foot catches on the back end of the treadmill and he trips, one foot over the other, head soaring down to collide with-

A hand clamps down tight around his waist, and an arm tucks up over his chest, fingers tucking into his neck. Tony’s throat closes as Peter catches him an inch from the treadmill, arms steady.

He lets out a breath, eyes closing.

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and Peter tugs him up to his feet. The arm around his chest slips away, but the hand on his waist stays where it is. Tony taps the treadmill controls and the machine groans down to a reluctant halt.

He stumbles off the treadmill with wobbling knees, tank top sticking to his chest with sweat. He reaches for the towel on the arm-hold, but it’s gone. Confused, he looks at the floor to see if it’s fallen, but-

The towel brushes his collarbone and he jolts, blinking to see Peter patting his chest down with the thing, eyes knotted with worry.

“You seem kinda tense,” Peter says, looking up at him with those doe-eyes.

“I’m fine,” Tony says.

“You could have been hurt,” Peter points out. “If I hadn’t caught you.”

And hey, yeah- “Since when have you been here?”

“Ever since the Everclear,” Peter admits, softly, running the towel over Tony’s shoulders, then dragging it down the side of his arm. “Do you run when you get upset?”

“I’m not upset.”

“I like exercising when I have a lot of built up,” Peter says, and taps the towel back to Tony’s collarbone. “Tension.”

“I’m fine,” Tony says.

Peter gives his chest one more pat with the towel before setting it back on the arm-hold. “Okay,” he says.

“Okay?” Tony repeats, frowning.

Peter swirls around in his jeans, still ripped on the inside. He tucks a thumb under one of the belt loops. Tony watches, lips parting, as Peter tugs the waistband of the jeans down an inch, showing the curve of what must be his hipbone- before he yanks it up, jeans hitching up to his waist.

He puts a hand on the doorway and looks over his shoulder.

“See you, Mister Stark,” he says.

And then he’s gone, and Tony’s left alone with nothing but a damp tank top, a damp towel-

And damp sweats.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im trying to get better at UST- the last fic was a lot of instant gratification lmao  
> porn next chap i promiiiise


	3. (smut)

Tony doesn’t know what it is.

But _it_ keeps happening. Peter tails him dawn till dusk, doe-eyed and happy, every day. And every night Tony buries his shame into his pillow along with his face and tries to imagine it’s not those doe-eyes in his mind’s eye as he spills into his hand, night after night.

Some part of him had known from the start, from the moment he’d seen the kid strung up, open, begging for it-

_Begging for it._

Yes, some part of him had known. And that part rejoices now, every night. When he tells FRIDAY to turn the lights off and lock the door to maximum security, when he has to close his eyes to block himself from the shame of it, when he slicks his hand up and tugs one orgasm after another out of himself, night after night.

He's not going to do anything about it.

That’s the difference between Wilson and him, he decides. He’s not like Wilson- no, he cares about Peter. Wilson clearly doesn’t. If Wilson had cared about Peter at all, none of this would have happened. He’d have taken the higher ground, like Tony’s doing, and everything would be fine.

Everything’s _going_ to be fine, because Tony’s not going to do anything about it.

So yes, perhaps Tony does know what _it_ is. But _it_ doesn’t change a thing.

* * *

“A hundred?”

“Yes, a hundred. To start with, at the very least.”

Tony holds his champagne glass up in a mock-toast, and Felicia Hardy toasts him back, smiling.

“It’s a remarkable design,” she says, glancing over at the presentation table. Through the throngs of people, they can make out the promotional video being played, projected onto the far wall. About a dozen people stand in a semicircle around the wall, watching. The rest of the guests are mingling, no doubt trying to network.

“It’s nothing, really,” he says, shrugging. “Just a few modifications from the Iron Man armor, redesigned for civilian use- well, redesigned for industry work.”

“Well, your ‘nothing’ is going to save our company,” Hardy says, shaking her head and fiddling with the rim of her champagne glass. “We just don’t have the means to hire enough hands right now.”

“Well, I’m glad I can help.” Tony gives another little salute with his glass. “Mind you, this is the first model. There might be some bugs in the system.” Hardy raises an eyebrow. “Only minor ones,” Tony says hurriedly. “Nothing threatening to property or to people. Just- keep an eye out for any inconsistencies.”

“Are you saying you want Oscorp to be your guinea pig?” Hardy asks coolly.

“Eh, kinda.” Tony shrugs. “How about this. I’ll pay you for regular reports, how’s that sound?”

“I’m listening,” Hardy says.

 _“And_ I’ll pay for any property damage- should it occur.”

Hardy narrows her eyes.

Tony smirks. “You’re good at this. Mm, then I’ll pay a deposit to cover potential damage costs. And I won’t ask for it back.”

“Deal,” Hardy says, holding out her hand. Tony takes it and they shake.

“I’ll send you the paperwork tomorrow,” Tony says, and downs the rest of his champagne. “After we figure out a name.”

“The ‘Stark-Arm’ isn’t catchy enough?” Hardy asks, giving in to a little smile.

“Not quite.” Tony snorts. “It took me three months to finish the damn thing, you’d think I could come up with a better name.”

“You’d think,” Hardy agrees. “Well then, Mr. Stark. My associates will be in touch.”

“So will mine,” Tony says, nodding. Hardy gives him one more look before sauntering away, pulling out her phone and heading for a table in the back. Tony sighs, watching her go. Oscorp isn’t the best company in the world to trade with- they’ve been involved in a couple legal scandals over the years- but if Tony spins this right, it’ll land in his favor if word ever gets out that Stark Industries had been doing business with them.

He’ll take care of it later. Right now, all he wants to do is down another four champagne glasses and watch the stars until they dance.

He grabs two more glasses off a passing tray in exchange for his two empty ones, giving the carrier a quick nod.

“Nice party.”

The glass in his left hand slips through his fingers, but a hand catches it before it can reach the floor.

“You drop stuff a lot.”

Peter brings the champagne glass to his nose and sniffs it. “Huh. Different than wine.”

“Give me that back,” Tony snaps, “you’re not old enough to drink.”

“I’m old enough for some things,” Peter says, giving the glass a swirl. The champagne bubbles impatiently, a little bit sloshing over the rim.

“Not for this,” Tony says. He reaches for the glass, and Peter lets him take it.

“What, no ‘thank you’?” Peter looks up, lips curved in a smirk. “I just saved your drink.”

“Thank you,” Tony says stiffly.

“What’s wrong?” Peter frowns.

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” Peter sighs, kicking a shoe on the carpet. His dress shoes shine from the overhead lights, but his slacks stay dark, fitted tight over his legs. Tony stares at his champagne glass. “Well,” Peter says. “Maybe you just need to loosen up a little more.” He stands on his tiptoes and cups a hand to Tony’s ear conspiratorially. “I heard there’s gonna be cocktails in about half an hour,” he whispers.

Cocktails. Yes. Cocktails are a very good idea.

“You like these kinds of parties?” Tony asks, and takes a mouthful of champagne.

“No, they’re awful,” Peter says. “Everyone’s so… fake.”

Tony swallows. “God, I know.” He swirls the last dregs in the glass before downing them too.

“Why do you do them? Can’t you just get people to be here for you?” Peter asks.

“Eh, it gives a good impression.” Tony shrugs, and a buzz shivers down his neck to his fingertips. He closes his eyes for a moment, savoring it, before forcing himself back into the room. “Makes people see that I care.”

“Do you?” Peter asks. “Care, I mean?”

“Of course I care.” Tony shrugs, setting the empty champagne glass down on a nearby table and bringing the other one to his lips. He’ll savor this one, he decides. Little sips. “If I didn’t care about my company, I wouldn’t be running it.”

“I guess that’s true.” Peter sighs, watching the people mingle. Over by the presentation, Tony can see  Hardy talking to a group of low-level SHIELD employees. She’s probably trying to recruit them, Tony thinks.

“Still sucks, though,” Tony adds, as an afterthought.

“I like baths.”

Tony blinks. He searches back, but nothing in their conversation had mentioned anything close to the subject. And they’re not at an expo for revolutionary bathroom technology.

“What?”

“I like baths,” Peter repeats. “When I have to do something awful during the day. I like taking a bath, it’s… like I’m pampering myself, a little bit.”

“Oh.” Tony takes another sip. And then a second, longer sip. “You mean self-rewarding.”

“Yeah, that’s it.” Peter beams. “You should… take a bath tonight, or something.”

“Or something,” Tony mutters. His _Or Something_ has a lot less water and a lot more liquor. He thinks about it. It’s been a good long while since he’s been really, truly hammered. He’s been working on it- and finding different stress relievers than his tried-and-true whisky bottle. But maybe…

Maybe that’s what he needs right now. Not only to take his mind off the expo, but to take his mind off of everything _else._ Maybe all he needs is one good dose of fuck-everything juice, and he’ll be back to normal.

Fuck it.

“Fuck it.”

Peter beams. “Listen, I should go,” he whispers. “I’m probably not doing much for your business-man image.”

“Yeah, sure,” Tony says, not even thinking about it. The promise of whiskey awaits him. All he has to do is make it through another handful of hopeful networkers and then he can go home and drown in both his whiskey and his bedsheets.

Tony downs the rest of his champagne, and closes his eyes too soon to see the triumphant little smile on Peter’s face as he gives Tony one last look, and vanishes out of the room.

* * *

Peter is a _genius._

Peter is a goddamn genius, and Tony is lighter and happier than he’s been in _months._

“FRIDAY,” he says, voice ringing a little too loudly in his own ears. “FRIDAY, do the thing. Lock. Lock the thing.”

 _“Lock your door, boss?”_ FRIDAY asks.

“Yes,” Tony says, nodding furiously. “Yes- yes, lock my door.”

 _“Yes, boss,”_ FRIDAY says. _“Anything else?”_

“Nope.” Tony pops the ‘p’, sliding his suit jacket from his shoulders and tossing it to the corner of his room. Tonight is going to be amazing. Tonight, he’s treating himself, and tonight is going to be _amazing._ He slides off his belt and undoes his slacks before he’s halfway to his bed, mind already half full of thoughts of doe-eyes and pink cream and cherry-red lips. Nothing’s going to matter tonight, and he’s going to _treat himself._

His slacks catch on his ankles and he flops onto his bed, trying to kick them off. After a few moments, he remembers that his shoes are still laced over his feet, and he rolls onto his back and sits up and tries to unlace them.

After a few unsuccessful tries, he tugs them off without bothering to undo the shoelaces, shoves his slacks down over his feet, and wrenches his trunks past his hips with one hand as he pats his other hand blindly on his bedside table.

“Fucking-” he mutters, trying to get the drawer open. On his third try it slides open and he tugs out his bottle of lube, uncapping it with his thumb. In less than a second he’s slicked up his right hand. He drops the lube onto his sheets and grabs his cock, hissing as the cool gel hits his skin.

“Fuck,” he sighs, alcohol-addled brain swimming in delight. “Oh, fuck yes.”

He doesn’t try to make this time count, he just thinks back to those black slacks and the way they’d hugged that ass, hugged it tight. He closes his eyes and imagines reaching down and feeling it, feeling the fabric stretched smooth, feeling the warmth of that little ass against his fingers.

_“Fuck.”_

The lube in his hand squelches obscenely, but he’s the only one in this room and the only one on this floor. No one bothers him after expo nights. He’s safe.

He grabs at his balls with his other hand, giving them a little squeeze, and thinks of cherry-red lips opened just so, of golden hair, of doe-eyes looking up at him, of knees bent and those cherry-lips open.

It’s almost enough to send him to the edge already.

“Peter,” he sighs, and even though he’s alone, his cheeks flush. “Yes, god, _fuck-_ Peter.”

He stills his hand to thumb over the head of his cock, smearing lube and precome down the sides.

“Come on,” he breathes, flexing his toes as he tries to work up to the edge again. “Come on, come on, come _on…”_

“Do you want a hand?”

Tony’s fist freezes over his cock.

For a precious moment, the room is completely silent. And then the sound of breath- breath that isn’t his- and the shifting of skin over sheets. Tony’s mattress dips to the left, and the breath brushes over Tony’s skin.

He blinks his eyes open and meets two doe-eyes. He blinks again and the rest of Peter swims into view. The rest of Peter is naked- flushed and pink and perched right over Tony, straddling him and looking straight up at him.

For a moment, his drunk-addled brain pitches the idea that this is an alcohol-induced hallucination. Because this isn’t possible. Peter can’t be here, Tony had locked the doors.

_He hadn’t checked first._

“I said,” Peter murmurs, and a hand closes over Tony’s own, which is firmly wrapped around his cock. “Do you want a hand?”

Tony can’t. Tony _can’t._

Tony cannot do this, Tony can’t even think about doing this. Jerking himself off to the thought of Peter is bad enough, but this? No. No, he can’t.

He can’t shake his head, either.

“I’ll give you what you want," Peter whispers. He tugs his hand slowly over Tony's, stroking him. "I’ll give you _anything_ you want.”

“I don’t want…” Tony looks down at Peter- at the way he blinks his little doe-eyes, at the way he twists that little body to splay it on top of Tony’s, at the way he parts his ruby-red lips to make Tony’s knees go weak. “…anything,” Tony finishes weakly.

“I think,” Peter hums, and trails a finger lightly over the head of Tony’s cock. It twitches in his hand, and Peter grins. “You should treat yourself.” And he leans down and presses his cherry-lips right to the head of Tony’s cock, slides that tongue right into the slit, gives a tiny little hum.

“Oh,” Tony says. “Oh- oh, god.”

Peter’s little hum grows louder, and his lips slide over, over the head of Tony’s cock, until he has the whole thing in his mouth. He suckles gently, doe-eyes blinking up and meeting Tony’s. And slowly, so slowly, he sinks his mouth down.

Tony’s fingers peel off, one by one, as Peter’s lips pass down. And Tony can do nothing but watch as his cock disappears into that little mouth, inch by inch, until Peter’s nose smushes up against Tony’s stomach.

Peter blinks up at him, as though asking a question.

Tony’s mind wobbles. He can’t do this. He can’t. He can’t.

 _You’re treating yourself,_ he remembers.

Peter’s seventeen.

_He’s old enough to know what he wants._

Peter gurgles and sinks down even lower, until Tony can see the barest hint of tears behind his eyes. Tony’s lips part but no sound emerges, just a release of breath that he can’t even call a sigh. It’s a ragged thing, and it carries so much Want that Tony’s cock twitches in Peter’s mouth at the sound of it.

Peter sucks hard and pulls off, giving the slit of Tony’s cock a lick as he does.

“I’ve seen you watching me,” he says, and bends down to lick alongside the side of Tony’s cock. “I like it when you watch me.”

Another sound escapes Tony’s throat- more like a whine this time.

“Do you like watching me?” Peter asks, blinking a few times. “Do you like watching me suck your cock?”

It’s awful. It’s awful and horrible and oh _god_ Tony wants it.

“Yes.” The word is out before he can stop it, and his brain throws caution to the wind. He can worry about this later- he can worry about _everything_ later. Tonight is tonight, and tonight he has Peter.

“I want you to fuck me,” Peter says. He laps at the base of Tony’s cock, then kisses up the side until he reaches the head. He tongues it slowly, staring directly at Tony. “I want your cock, I want it.”

“Yes,” Tony breathes. The image swims into focus in his mind’s eye, of Peter, legs on either side of Tony’s waist, head tossed back, that little chest slick with sweat.

“You will?” Peter swirls the tip of his tongue in a circle around the head again, lapping up precome as he goes. “You’ll do it?”

“Yeah.” Tony doesn’t know what he’s saying, only that saying yes will get him closer to that image. He swallows thickly. “How do you want to- uh.”

“I’m ready,” Peter says immediately, and sits up. Tony gets a full view of Peter’s cock- and it’s gorgeous. Flushed and red and little enough that it stands flush against Peter’s stomach. He’s as hard as Tony, and by the looks of it he’s been leaking for some time. Peter reaches down under himself and moans.

Tony doesn’t care what that means, not right now.

“Down,” he says, sitting up himself. “You- down. Now.”

Peter beams and turns around, getting on his hands and knees and shoving that little ass up in Tony’s face. Tony’s hands are on Peter’s ass before he knows what he’s doing, and he grabs and grabs, feeling. Peter’s skin is so soft and so warm under his fingers, so perfect. He thumbs down into Peter’s cleft and spreads his cheeks.

“You _are_ ready,” he murmurs.

“Please,” Peter whimpers. “I want it. I want it, please.”

Tony just stares, transfixed. Peter’s hole is pink and puffy. He’s obviously been working it open for a while- and again, Tony doesn’t care what that means. It clenches open and shut as Peter trembles under his hands, waiting.

“Mister Stark,” Peter whispers.

And that’s what does it, really.

Tony grabs his cock and presses it against Peter’s hole, testing it. He wants to wait, wants to tease- but Peter bears down and swallows the head of Tony’s cock right down, before Tony can so much as thrust.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, as Peter gives another little moan, head and shoulders sinking down onto the bed.

“More,” Peter whines. “Please- please-”

“Hold on,” Tony murmurs. “Hold on.” He squeezes Peter’s ass as he pushes in, inch after inch. Peter pushes back just as much, and before Tony knows it, his hips are flush against Peter’s ass.

 _“Yes,”_ Peter groans. “Yes, Mister Stark.”

Tony closes his eyes and gives his hips a little pump. “Oh my god.”

“Like that,” Peter whines. “Like that, like that.”

“You like that?” Tony does it again, a little harder, and Peter rocks against the bed.

“I like it,” Peter whimpers. “You- you feel good inside me.”

The words are ridiculous, but again Tony just _doesn’t care._ Nothing matters right now, nothing, except this.

“You’re so ready for this,” Tony groans, giving his hips a sharp pump and settling into a shallow pace. “You wanted this, huh?”

“Wanted you,” Peter moans.

 _“Fuck-_ I wanted you too,” Tony whispers. He’s never said it, not to himself, not to anyone. Even saying it now feels a little wrong.

“Fuck me,” Peter gasps, twisting his little head to look up at Tony with desperate doe-eyes. “Fuck me, please- more- I need-”

Tony doesn’t need telling twice. Grabbing Peter’s hips, he slams forward. His cock is slick with lube and Peter’s hole is slick with what must be lube too, and together they slap and squelch and slide. Peter is hot and warm and wet around him, clenching uncontrollably as Tony fucks into him again and again and again, the head of his cock ramming up against the back of Peter’s walls.

The edge comes before Tony can stop it, and he sinks his nails into Peter’s back as he comes, hot and sticky, buried deep inside of Peter.

“Oh my god,” he groans, feeling his cock pulse and throb, feeling the space around himself become slicker and warmer and wetter. _“Oh_ my god.”

“Yes,” Peter sighs, clenching around him. “Yes. Fill me up.”

That alone is almost enough to get Tony going again- but Tony’s no spring chicken. He lets his cock spill out its last little dribbles of seed before he lets out a breath and makes to pull out.

Peter shakes his head suddenly. “No,” he says, “no, stay.”

“Stay?” Tony frowns.

“Yeah.” Peter squeezes his ass around Tony’s cock. It gives a wet sound, and Tony watches as a little bit of come starts to leak out around the edges. He bites his lip.

“Okay,” he says, hearing the word leave his mouth. “Okay, you can stay.”

Peter hums happily, wiggling his ass. He sits up and presses his back against Tony’s chest, then tugs them down so they’re on their sides, Peter curled up under Tony.

Tony’s legs are sticky, his sheets are damp, and his room smells like sex. And his brain does not care. The morning will come, and with it will come a hangover and probably some talking and whatever other details he can’t think about right now.

But right now, his cock is warm and cozy, he has a soft body pressed against his own, and the slow sound of breathing carries him off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~so if tony's drunk and cant consent~~   
>  ~~and peter's underage and cant consent~~
> 
>   ~~THEN WHOS FLYING THE PLANE~~


	4. Chapter 4

Consciousness comes first in the form of pain.

Tony’s eyes seem stapled shut, and they burn as he tries to blink them open. Awareness comes in little bursts, from his eyes to his face to his shoulders- to his arms, which are lifted over his head- and then to his wrists, which are bound together by something heavy and mechanical.

He twitches his fingers and the metal thing scrapes against his headboard.

What-

_What-_

Tony forces his eyes open and the room hits him like a super-soldier punch to the face. There’s a little light poking through the top of his curtains, not enough to light the room, but enough to pierce his eyes and his brain and oh _god-_

“You’re awake!”

Tony jolts, realizing he’s not alone. Peter’s voice comes from the other side of the room, and Tony turns to see the kid sitting in Tony’s chair, cross legged and peering at him. A brush of air ghosts over Tony’s chest and he realizes he’s naked.

Peter, who looks Tony up and down curiously, is not. He’s back in his little suit, sans the shoes.

“FRIDAY,” Tony says, voice rough. Nothing happens. “FRIDAY,” he tries again, looking at his ceiling. But the room gives no answer. Peter smiles.

“Oh, FRIDAY’s not here right now,” he says. “It’s just you and me.”

 He uncrosses his legs smoothly, and Tony winces, struck by sudden images, memories, of last night. Of falling into bed, of gasping out a name, of another voice and another body and another mouth and-

Oh god.

“Oh god,” Tony breathes.

“So you remember,” Peter says, sounding pleased. “Good. I was wondering if I was going to have to tell you everything. _That_ would have been a nightmare.”

“I’m sorry,” Tony says, shaking his head. He doesn’t know what Peter’s saying, the guilt and the shame are too loud in his ears. “God, I’m sorry- I- I was drunk, I couldn’t stop- I- Kid, I’m _sorry.”_

Peter snorts.

It’s a real snort, not one of those derisive ones Tony hears every other mission as he’s distracting their baddie-of-the-month as he finds a way to escape. Peter’s actually laughing, and by the sound of it he expects Tony to join in.

“Why would I be mad about that?” he asks, laughing again. He swipes his hair out of his eyes, still snorting. “Don’t you remember anything?” He sticks out his bottom lip. _“Please, Mister Stark,”_ he whines. _“I want it, Mister Stark.”_

“Stop it.” Tony glares hard at him. “How did you get in here?” he demands. “You don’t have access to my room.”

“When you gave me the passcode to your lab, you pretty much gave me access to anywhere I wanted,” Peter says, shrugging. “I mean, sure, it wasn’t in the same order, but all the components were there.” Peter beams again, and the light behind his eyes isn’t even close to malicious. He’s proud, Tony realizes. He’s clever and he’s proud of it.

“What did you do?” he asks carefully.

“Well, I left the party when I was sure you were going to get drunk,” Peter explains. Tony’s fingers tap around the edges of the handcuffs, searching for a button, a keyhole, anything. “And I came right here. Well, I stopped down at the armory to pick up a pair of those first- they’re actually really useful.”

“And FRIDAY?” Tony asks.

“I have clearance to your lab,” Peter says. “Which means I have clearance to order FRIDAY around. I can’t order her to do everything you can, but I can tell her to do some things.” He crosses his legs the other way, fidgeting. “So once I got in, I told her not to tell you I was here. I told her to wait until morning and then leave the room. No cameras, no audio. Not until I come out and tell her she can come back in.”

Tony’s heart sinks.

And some tiny, tiny part of it breaks, just a little.

Because every little thing that had meant something before means something _now_. Every look Peter had given him, every glance, every shake of his hips. Every twist of his lips, every twinkle in his eye. Every touch. Every word.

It had all meant this.

“What,” he says slowly. “What do you want?”

“A few things,” Peter says, standing up. He links his arms behind his back, like he’s trying for a dramatic pose. But he misses, and his arms cross, throwing him off balance. He stops short and tries again, this time linking his hands together. Satisfied, he starts to pace alongside the edge of Tony’s bed. “First off. I want to know what you know.”

“What?” Tony blinks. “I- what are you talking about?”

Peter frowns. “I know you know something. Tell me how much.”

“Kid,” Tony tries, fingers sliding over the handcuffs. They’re made to constrain much more powerful people than Tony, and in his heart of hearts he knows he hasn’t got a chance of breaking free.

“What did he tell you?” Peter demands, and Tony recognizes that little quiver behind his words. There’s nothing cute, nothing funny about the situation now. Something is wrong. “What did Wade tell you?”

 _Wade._ Peter calls him Wade. Tony’s heart tugs for a reason he doesn’t understand.

“Nothing,” he says honestly. “He wouldn’t tell me anything.”

“Liar!” Peter shouts. “Tell me the truth, right now. What did Wade tell you?”

“I _am_ telling the truth!” Tony tries to lean forward, but the cuffs lock his wrists behind the headboard and he can’t move further than an inch.

“Really,” Peter says, looking straight at Tony. It’s like some kind of insane staring contest- neither of them back down. “Then tell me,” Peter says, “why I got _this.”_

He picks his phone up off of Tony’s bedside table and flicks it on, then shows the screen out. Tony squints, eyes still a little sleep-addled and hungover, but he can just make out the words.

_‘Stark knows._

_Stay safe.’_

Tony stares at the text, reading it and rereading it and trying to figure it out.

“He didn’t tell me anything,” he says slowly. “I promise. He didn’t. I asked him, I did, but. He wouldn’t say.”

Peter huffs, taking his phone back. 

“I figured it out on my own,” Tony says. Peter stills, looking up from the phone and meeting Tony’s eyes. Tony sighs. “I figured out some things didn’t… make sense. And then the rest just fell into place.”

“He really didn’t tell you?”

Tony looks at Peter, really looks at him.

Objectively, Peter’s the bad guy here. Tony’s naked and handcuffed to his own bed, being held hostage in his own bedroom after having been played like a rusty guitar. Objectively yes, Peter’s ticking just about every checkbox down the list of Not Good Things To Do.

But.

But something in Tony just… can’t believe that. Something in Tony sees Peter's eyes widen in what must be hope, sees him hold his phone, hold the message from Wade like it’s a talisman. Something in Tony sees the way he tucks his arms in front of his chest like a child waiting to hear the news, waiting for the possibility of something terrible for the first time in its life. Something in Tony sees Peter, now, and recognizes fear and mistrust and something that’s almost fear but not quite- though Tony knows it by heart- but also sees hope.

“He didn’t tell me,” Tony says. “If you want proof, there’s security footage in the Raft. It cuts out when I sabotaged the cameras to let him out, but-”

“You what?” Peter’s eyes flicker, and he holds the phone to his chest. “You- let him out?”

“You saw the offer I made him.”

“He didn’t,” Peter whispers.

“That’s not the point.” Tony shakes his head. “A deal’s a deal.”

Peter doesn’t say anything to that. Tony waits, but the kid keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t meet Tony’s eyes anymore, keeps them on the edge of the bed instead. Tony watches his thumb slide over the edge of his phone.

“Look,” he says. “I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Sure, I believe you,” Peter snarks, and snaps back to attention. He flops back down into Tony’s chair, not even looking at the bed.

“I’m _not,”_ Tony insists. “I won’t rat you out.”

“I know you won’t,” Peter says. “Because if you do, I’ll…” He takes a breath. “I’ll show them what happened last night.” There’s no question who _them_ is, and Tony’s stomach gives a funny jolt.

“FRIDAY will delete it,” he says, clinging onto the last thread of hope. “The second you walk out of here.”

“You think I didn’t already tell her to give me a copy?” Peter rolls his eyes. “Please.”

Tony had been afraid of that.

“Well,” he says carefully. “I’m not going to tell them. I promise.”

Peter eyes him.

“What did he say?”

Tony blinks. “Wilson?” Peter nods. Tony thinks. “He said… he took you.” _And the bad man went to jail…_ “He said he used you. And then you escaped.”

“Oh.” Peter looks down at his lap. “Was there anything else?”

“He said it wasn’t his story to tell,” Tony says. “That whatever you told us, that was it.” Tony watches Peter as he says the words, watches Peter look down and down and down. “And that’s all.”

“I see,” Peter says. And then. “FRIDAY,” he calls. “Cuffs.”

Tony hears a _hiss-click,_ and the shackles around his wrists sigh open. His arms drop down to his sides, blood finally falling back down into his hands. His fingers tingle with static as he opens them, closes them.

“You said FRIDAY wasn’t here.”

“Like I have the authority to put FRIDAY out of a room.” Peter shrugs. “She’s on mute.”

Tony’s mouth opens, and something falls out that almost counts as a laugh.

* * *

Peter’s gone when Tony steps out of the shower, steam swelling off his skin.

It’s a little disappointing, but not a surprise. He’s impressed with how intimidating the kid had managed to be- and how smart he’d been to plan it, and how gutsy he’d been to pull it off at all. He’s always admired Peter in one way or another, whether for his brains or for his character.

Tony dresses slowly, brain still sloshing back and forth in an ankle-deep puddle of alcohol.

It makes sense, and that’s what hurts the most. The day after he’d come back from the Raft- the day after he’d figured it out. Peter had dressed to impress, had waltzed right into Tony’s Lab and talked every bit the image of Tony’s wet dreams from hell.

Some part of him feels relieved- the guilt of seeing Peter and _wanting_ like that doesn’t bear entirely on his shoulders anymore. Peter had made that happen. A means to an end.

And that night. That _night._

Peter had been ready from the start, loose and open and begging. How long had he sat in the back corner, waiting? Opening himself up, preparing, watching the door and waiting for Tony to stumble in, too drunk to notice someone lurking in the corner of his own bedroom.

If Peter had footage of them together that night, was there footage of Peter, too?

The guilt strikes Tony’s stomach again, but the blow is a little dull. After all, he’s already fucked the kid. He can say that now, saying it won’t change anything.

So yes, he’s already fucked the kid. He can’t stoop any lower than that. Watching it back again won’t do anyone any harm. Watching Peter wait, watching Peter undress, watching Peter finger himself open, that can’t do any worse harm than Tony’s already done.

“FRIDAY,” he says, “unmute.”

 _“Yes, boss,”_ FRIDAY says, and he sags in relief.

“You have any record of last night?”

 _“Audio and visual, boss,”_ she says.

“Peter made you send him a copy,” Tony remembers.

_“Yes, boss.”_

“Send me one,” Tony decides. “Then. Wipe it from the record.”

Another pause. Then. _“Yes, boss.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we're almost to the meat of this thing just hang on  
>  ~~this is literally all setup and exposition rn thats why this one is so shorrrrrrt~~
> 
> DO NOT TRUST PETER  
> I TOLD YOU HE'S A FUGLY SLUT


	5. (smut)

It feels like months later.

It’s days, but it feels like months.

Tony tries to go back to normal, to run on his treadmill and look over his paperwork and send emails to Fury, to stay out of the way and keep to his company and his expos and his projects. Tony tries. But it won’t leave him alone.

 _What_ exactly won’t leave him alone, he’s not sure. There’s the obvious fact that he’s a forty-one-year-old man who’s just fucked the seventeen-year-old son of his two teammates. There’s also the fact that Peter is holding evidence of that night as blackmail over his head. And there’s the fact that Tony still thinks about it every time he closes his eyes, the fact that he _watches_ it every night.

But none of that’s what bothers him. Sure, he feels guilty about the whole thing, but it doesn’t eat at him day and night.

(Well, in a way it does.)

No, it’s not all that. It’s something else, something Tony can’t place his finger quite on yet. He’s close, though. He’s close.

“Tony?”

Tony rips his eyes from the skyline at Rogers’s voice and turns, keeping a hand on the railing between the rest of the room and the floor-length windows. Both Barnes and Rogers have somehow crossed to the middle of the room without Tony’s notice. It’s not like they’re not allowed to be up here- it’s a communal room, the one they all used to use for team movie nights- but Tony likes to think he’s observant enough to notice someone else walking around beside him.

Barnes is the exception. Alongside Natasha.

“Yeah?” he says, taking his hand off the railing and leaning back on it. His stomach quivers a little. “What’s up?”

“Can we talk to you?” Rogers continues, and the two of them step forward. Tony shrugs.

“Sure, I guess,” he says, marveling at just how easy it would be for the words _hey, guess what, I fucked your son_ to leave his mouth. His jaw clenches to form the first ‘h’ and he keeps his lips clamped shut, trying for a casual look.

Barnes raises an eyebrow.

“It’s about Peter,” Rogers says.

Every alarm bell in Tony’s body goes off at once. He tries not to let his eyes widen, his knees buckle, and his hands fidget- but they all do. He grabs the railing again for support as he braces himself for round two of this fight. He doesn’t have his armor on him, and there’s no way it can come to him fast enough from here. And he’d just given Barnes’s arm a tune-up, he knows what it can do.

“Do you think you could tutor him?” Rogers asks.

Tony blinks.

“What?”

Barnes gives a half-snort. He barely speaks around Tony, but they’ve been working up to verbal noises. Affirmative grunts were first. Tony supposes a laugh should be some kind of benchmark.

“Tutor him,” Rogers says again. He sighs. “I know it’s a lot to ask.”

“No-” Tony says, standing back up straight. “No, no, no, I can teach- tutor- I can tutor him, what exactly would I be teaching him?”

“Oh, well,” Rogers says, fidgeting with his hands. “We’re signing him up for online classes this year- but they don’t start until the end of September. And they aren’t going to give him as much practical experience, so. We thought maybe you could help out.”

“Yeah,” Tony says, without thinking. His brain has short-circuited by now, and the relief pounding through his veins is so much that he can’t do anything but agree feverishly.

“He’s a lot smarter than Bucky or me,” Rogers admits sheepishly, shrugging. “But I think you probably know a thing or two about- well. Scientific things.”

He’s clearly in over his head. Barnes snorts again.

“Just let him into your lab every once in a while,” Barnes says, voice low.

Tony nods blankly. “Sure,” he says. “Sure, yeah. I can- that. I can do that. Sure.”

“Are you… okay?” Rogers frowns, blinking his big blue eyes.

“Fine,” Tony says.

“Are you sure?” Rogers takes a step forward. “Because if you ever-”

“Nope- no- not with the mushy crap, nope.” Tony ducks out of the way of Rogers’s pity-stance and backs away to the door. “I let you two live here, we call it good.” Rogers gives a slightly hurt look. “And we’re friends,” Tony adds, grudgingly.

Barnes looks like he wants to say something, but holds back.

“We’re not friends,” Tony says to him. “I mean- like- we’re not _there_ yet, that’s all I mean. Not that we’re not _friendly-”_

Barnes puts a hand up. “Quit while you’re ahead.”

* * *

Tony spits into his hand, wraps it around his cock, and closes his eyes.

Teach the kid, huh.

He works his hand around his cock, thumbing over the head with every other pump. It sends a shot of guilt to his gut, but one thought of those doe-eyes and that golden hair, and those cherry lips _oh_ those lips…

He doesn’t have to spit this time as he fists his cock, the slap of his own hand over his skin reverberating around the whole room.

“Fuck,” he breathes. _“Oh,_ fuck- FRIDAY.”

 _“Yes boss,”_ FRIDAY says, her voice quiet like it always is when he calls her up at night.

“Play it,” Tony grunts, keeping his eyes shut and rolling onto his side.

_“You mean the recording from August-”_

“Yes,” Tony bites impatiently. “Yes- the same one, yes, just play it.”

He swears he hears FRIDAY sigh before she says, _“Yes, boss.”_

And then Peter’s voice is in his ear again. Not as close as he remembers, but still honey-sweet, still there, still whispering filthy, filthy things. Tony’s breath catches as he hears Peter’s voice, hears _I like it when you watch me._

Tony hasn’t been watching lately. Tony can’t watch- the kid stays as far away from him as he can. Peter keeps to his room, or to another floor. He must have asked FRIDAY to tell him whenever Tony’s close, because the most Tony’s seen of the kid are glimpses, either behind elevator doors or around hallway corners. And he’s not going to chase after Peter, of course he isn’t. The last thing he wants to do is make the poor kid even more uncomfortable.

_Do you like watching me? Do you like watching me suck your cock?_

“Fuck- yes,” Tony whispers, squeezing around his cock, giving the head another thumb over, wrist beginning to ache a little.

And now they want him to tutor the kid. And isn’t that going to go well. Tony wonders how they’re going to do it, what they’re going to tell Peter. He misses just having the kid in his lab, having a sounding board, having something to look at when he needs to take a break from his own projects. Without it, the Lab is like a blank page now. It’s empty, nothing to work with. Peter had been _something._

_I want you to fuck me. I want your cock, I want it._

“Yes,” Tony breathes, imagining himself back in that night again, with a warm body over his and eager hands trailing over his skin.

_You’ll do it?_

“Yeah,” Tony groans, fist working faster. He hears a few more words pass, hears movement, but it filters out. And then. Oh, and then.

_Please. I want it. I want it, please._

“Oh god,” Tony breathes.

_Mister Stark._

Tony flops onto his back, stomach to the ceiling, hand _slap-slapping_ against his skin as he works his cock faster and faster. If he tries hard enough, he can imagine the bed is as warm as he remembers it, he can taste the whiskey on his tongue and smell the cologne off Peter’s skin.

_I like it. You- you feel good inside me._

“Fuck,” Tony moans, feeling the edge coming all too quickly.

_Wanted you._

“Fuck,” Tony whispers. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

_Fuck me- please- I need-_

_“Fuck!”_ Tony shouts, hand a blur over his cock, and comes onto his own chest, splattering over his skin. He gives his cock a squeeze, then pinches lightly with his thumb and forefinger over the head, letting one last dribble of come leak out, sticky over his fingers.

 _Yes,_ he hears Peter’s voice say, as he lays boneless on his soiled sheets. _Yes. Fill me up._

“FRIDAY,” he murmurs, and the audio shuts off.

Tony breathes in the silence, sucking air into his lungs. Blood pumps in his ears, down his neck, to the tips of his toes. He lets his breath rush out of him, chest sinking down.

 _“I took the liberty of selecting particular moments,”_ FRIDAY says, a little proudly.

“I noticed,” Tony hums, just lying on his back and breathing. He can already feel the stuff cooling on his skin, tacky and sticky.

 _“Do you want to keep my edits?”_ FRIDAY asks.

Tony hums an affirmative noise, and FRIDAY chirps back.

“How the hell am I going to do this?” Tony mutters, running his clean hand over his face and digging the heel of his palm into his eye.

_“Boss?”_

“They want me to _tutor_ him,” Tony explains, opening his eyes and staring at the ceiling. The moonlight peeks out from over the curtains, casting the ceiling in a light glow. “He won’t even look at me- and I don’t blame him.”

 _“Why not?”_ FRIDAY asks.

“I thought I programmed you to be smarter than this,” Tony grumbles. “Look, you know what I did. You have to hear it every night, you…” He drags his hand off his face. “You know.”

 _“I know,”_ FRIDAY agrees.

It’s impossible for her to feel disappointment or scorn. It’s impossible that she says _I know_ like that, in a way that twists Tony’s insides, turns them to rubber, slices them open and twists them into a braid.

“FRIDAY,” he says to the ceiling. “Can I just… hear him?”

 _“Yes, boss,”_ FRIDAY says.

“Not the.” Tony waves his hand vaguely in the air. “Sex stuff. Just. Whatever else you got.”

A pause.

_“Yes, boss.”_

Tony closes his eyes and ignores the way that the air passes over his stomach, cool and biting. He closes his eyes and just listens- he doesn’t know what for. That _thing_ still scratches at the back of his head, maddeningly.

_You’re awake!_

_Yes,_ Tony thinks. _Yes, I’m awake._ More awake now than he had been, then. What a damn fool he’d been.

_Oh, FRIDAY’s not here right now. It’s just you and me._

Clever, clever. Tony can’t help it- affection blooms behind his chest. Clever boy, to have said that. And Tony had just believed him, had just accepted the lie and taken FRIDAY for lost. And all the time, she’d been there. All the time, there had never been a threat at all.

_So you remember. Good. I was wondering if I was going to have to tell you everything. That would have been a nightmare._

Tony remembers what happens next- remembers the fear and the guilt bubbling out of him with the words _I’m sorry,_ remembers the shame and the memories and the everything. Remembers Peter-

Remembers Peter-

_Why would I be mad at that?_

Tony sits up. 

* * *

“I’m only here because Dad and Father told me to be,” Peter says, setting up camp in his little corner of the Lab. Tony watches him silently, working over the next prototype for his line of Stark-Arms. God, he really does need a better name for these things.

Peter waits for a response. When he doesn’t get one, he huffs and opens up his laptop, pulling up a window showing what looks like a new design for his web-shooters on one side of the screen, and a blank page for typing on the other.

Tony fiddles with his Stark-Arm, pretending not to notice as Peter looks over his shoulder every few minutes, checking to see if Tony’s looking at him. He shines with that naivete every kid has when they crave attention but don’t want to ask for it.  

It takes an hour before Tony breaks. He sets the Stark-Arm down onto his work table with a solid _clunk,_ and he sees Peter’s head start to twist. This time, he keeps his gaze steady.

Peter meets his eyes and jumps with surprise at finally being caught.

“So,” Tony says, swiveling his chair around so that he can actually face the kid without twisting his neck in half. He folds his arms, leaning back.

“So?” Peter retorts, folding his own arms in return.

“Your parents want me to tutor you,” Tony says. “Teach you.”

“I know,” Peter mutters, looking down at the floor. “They also want to make me take online classes.”

“Tragic,” Tony says. Peter scowls. “Hey, I mean actually tragic,” Tony amends. “I value higher education!”

“You’re not a professor,” Peter says, still frowning.

“Granted, no, but I am a genius. And as such, I consider it my responsibility to educate the less-informed.”

“Oh, shut up.” Peter rolls his eyes.

 _“Which means,”_ Tony says importantly, “I _will_ be teaching you.”

“You can try, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to-”

“How to fuck.”

That shuts him up.

Peter gawks at Tony, mouth in the middle of a word, brain clearly turning itself over, trying to figure out what it’s just heard.

“I’m… sorry,” Peter says. “But. What?”

“I’m going to teach you how to fuck,” Tony says, crossing his legs. “How to actually fuck.”

“I know how to-” Peter goes scarlet, cutting himself off. Interesting.

“You’ve got some technique,” Tony admits. “I’ll give you that. But you don’t know the rules.”

“Rules.” Peter rolls his eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Yeah, okay, the fact that you don’t think there are rules is why you need someone to teach you,” Tony says, shaking his head.

“You’re just saying that because you want to-” Peter breaks off again, hugging his chest. “You want to do it again.”

“I’m saying it because I don’t want you to get hurt,” Tony insists, standing up out of his chair. He’s not the tallest person in the world, but he’s still taller than Peter is sitting down. Peter shrinks a little, but keeps his eyes hard.

“Please. Like I’m gonna get hurt.”

“You wouldn’t have had to call us in to come save you if you didn’t need it,” Tony snaps. “And it’s not all about you.”

Peter doesn’t have a clever comeback for that one.

“I don’t want you hurting anyone _else,”_ Tony says. “That’s why you need to know the rules.”

Tony must have hit a nerve, because Peter looks down at his lap. And there’s that thing again, the thing that’s almost fear but not quite. Tony sees it flicker over Peter’s face, settle behind his eyes.

It’s guilt.

“We both… made mistakes,” Tony says slowly, and sits back down. Peter shifts a little, less intimidated by Tony when he’s level. “But you broke the rules.”

“I didn’t,” Peter says defensively. “You said yes.”

“I was drunk,” Tony says. “So my ‘yes’ didn’t count.”

“Yes it did!” Peter frowns.

“No,” Tony says calmly. “It didn’t.”

Peter says nothing to this.

“He was your first,” Tony says. “Wasn’t he?”

Peter blinks. “What?”

“Wilson.”

“Oh.” Peter hugs his arms tight around his eyes. “Um. Yeah.”

“I thought so.” Tony sighs. “Look, kid. I just don’t think he’s a fantastic role model for you. Or a good teacher.”

“And you think you can do better,” Peter mutters.

“I do, actually.” Tony shrugs.

“But you said we both made mistakes,” Peter points out.

“I did,” Tony says, nodding. “You’re… no, you’re not too young. I’m just too old.” He gives a dry smile. “Technically not against the rules, though. Since you’re seventeen now.” He sighs. “So, legally, you’re in the wrong and I’m in the right. But we both know the world doesn’t work like that.”

“There isn’t any wrong,” Peter argues, sitting up. “You- I mean, you’re not mad about it, are you?”

“Oh, no, I’m mad,” Tony says. “Not at you, though.”

“Then- why?” Peter frowns. “If you didn’t do anything wrong, then.” He blinks. “You. Didn’t like it?”

“Mm, no. I did. That’s what’s wrong.” Tony shrugs again. “But. I think I can ease my conscience a bit if you let me teach you.”

Peter’s frown comes back. “I don’t want a teacher- I don’t _need_ a teacher.”

“Do you know what a safeword is?” Tony asks, without missing a beat.

Peter scowls. “No.”

“Traffic light system.”

“No.”

“Any and all methods of safe sex.”

“I mean, I-”

“The _basic rules of consent.”_

Peter throws up his hands. “All right! All right, no, I don’t. But I can just- look them up!”

“You don’t know what to look up,” Tony argues. “And you don’t know what kind of sources to trust. If you just look that stuff up willy-nilly, you could end up thinking that, I don’t know, sex is the spawn of the devil and abstinence is the only way to be safe.”

There are some drawbacks to not going to normal school with normal people. Not taking basic health classes, for one. And then having to learn things the hard way. Making mistakes because he just never learned how to know any better, how to have a conversation about these things. Having to grow up thinking he’s one step behind the curve, always, always.

Tony’s going to make this right. For Peter.

“I just want to help you,” he says. “For your sake. And for the sake of everyone else you’re going to meet.”

Peter sighs. “You can’t make me,” he says, and Tony’s heart sinks.

Peter shuts his laptop and unhooks it from the charger on the wall, then slings it under his arm. He gives his empty work-table a long look, as if he’s fascinated by the little layers of dust just starting to form by the corners.

“But,” he says.

Tony holds his breath.

Peter inhales, exhales, holds the computer to his chest.

“I’ll think about it.”

* * *

It goes like this.

Tony knows what kind of a person Peter is. He’s stubborn, he’s smart, and he’s driven. If he wants something, he’s going to get it, for better or for worse. And this kid _clearly_ wants sex.

If Peter was willing to stick around in Wade fucking Wilson’s basement, willing to pop his cherry to possibly the most dangerous mercenary walking the streets of New York, then. That says something about his libido.

And Peter’s clearly swimming neck-deep, here, just barely keeping afloat on talent alone. If he gets into rough water, he’ll drown. He’s lucky Tony’s so understanding and willing to help, really.

But if Tony lets him go, then he’s going to go out and he’s going to find the hottest guy in his school, and god knows what they’ll do.

Tony just. Wants him to be ready, that’s all. Tony wants to prepare him for the future, whatever it is.

This- _this-_ can’t last. Peter living here, Peter with him. He doesn’t know how long he has, but it won’t be forever. He doesn’t have a year and a day to teach Peter the ropes. So he needs to start now. And cover as much as he can.

And hey.

If that means he gets to see those cherry-red lips over his cock one more time, then. Well.

So be it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sorry it wasnt real smut it was just tony jackin off like a NERD  
> tonys doing this for the greater good ok- it has nothing to do with anything else
> 
> also!! statutory rape laws are [here](https://www.cga.ct.gov/2003/olrdata/jud/rpt/2003-r-0376.htm) if you are interested in reading them! the age of consent in NY is 17, so technically peter can give consent in this case (though he couldn't with wade bc he was 16.) (also I think there might be some extra thing about how if the younger person is still a minor aka younger than 18, the older person can't be more than 20 years older than them? but that's not on the website so im just gonna say if it exists, it doesn't apply in this fictional scenario)  
> know your rape laws kids!!


End file.
